Girl Saves Boy (17 page)

We stood on opposite sides of the kitchen bench.

‘This is awkward,’ I said.

Sacha smiled again. ‘Yeah.’

He grasped my hand across the bench and turned it palm up and rubbed his thumb slowly across it.

‘Do you remember what I said last night?’ he asked.

I concentrated on my hand, and his hand holding it, and the Formica bench top, and the half-eaten Tim Tam.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘Let’s sit in the living room,’ he said.

We sat on the couch and Sacha raked his fingers through his hair again and I tucked my knees to my chest.

‘So,’ I said.

He turned towards me and he bit his bottom lip and his eyes were so big and his smile so sweet and uncertain.

‘So,’ he said.

‘You’ll have to tell me again,’ I said. ‘Start from the beginning.’

Sacha reached over and tucked my hair behind my ears. ‘It was a lot easier to say last night.’

‘Do you want to go down to the bottle shop? Would that make it easier?’ I said.

He laughed and showed all his teeth. And then the front door opened and Rachel came in.

Sacha and I both stood up. Rachel looked tired and a little bit drunk. No one spoke or moved for ages.

She put down her keys and said, ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Sacha,’ I said. ‘Sacha, this is Rachel.’

Rachel blinked slowly and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know what to do, Jewel.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with this, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m eighteen, and I have been for five months.’

She almost looked sad. ‘I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’ve failed you somehow— have I?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Why don’t you get some sleep?’

I glanced at Sacha apologetically and eased Rachel out of the room and into her bedroom. I helped her take off her jacket and got her a glass of water from the bathroom.

When she got into bed I sat on the edge.

‘You didn’t fail anyone, Mum,’ I said. ‘Stop blaming yourself and I’ll stop blaming me.’

She sighed and closed her eyes.

I left the room and closed the door behind me. Sacha was standing in the same place I had left him. I kissed him on the cheek. ‘We’ve got a while till school starts. Do you want to go for a walk?’

He smiled.

I put on a green dress that was gathering dust in my cupboard (one of a few dresses my grandparents had bought me, but I’d never worn), brushed my hair and teeth, splashed my face with water and found a spare toothbrush in the bathroom for Sacha. I slicked on red lipstick and mascara. Because I felt like it. Because today would be a good day.

We walked to the park, holding hands part of the way. The park was just starting to fill up with people: the diligent dog-walkers, early-rising mothers with squealing babies, joggers and cyclists and power-walkers nodding at each other as they crossed paths. We wandered through the long grass to the far side of the football oval, where we were sheltered by trees.

I collapsed onto the grass and dragged Sacha down with me.

‘I’m sorry about my mum,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he smiled. ‘I’m lucky your father isn’t around.’

‘Yeah.’ I smiled. I ripped up a handful of grass and then let it shower down onto the ground like a flurry of green snow.

I looked back up at Sacha and he leant forward and kissed me and I tingled all the way to my toes.

We leant back a bit, and we both had our eyes open. I was so close I could see each of Sacha’s eyelashes and I could feel his breath against my face. Then he whispered, ‘I’m going to die.’

Neither of us moved. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s going to die, Sacha. Don’t tell me you just realised you’re a mortal.’ Even as I dismissed what he’d said, I felt uneasy.

‘I love you, Jewel.’

He grasped my hand and the air felt tense. My breath caught in my throat.

I shook my head. ‘You’re being a drama queen. You are.’

Sacha laughed an unfunny laugh. ‘Please let me explain it to you.’ He squeezed my hand.

I didn’t squeeze back or nod, just shifted away from him and stared into the distance.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and his thumb made little circles on the back of my hand. ‘When I was younger—between eight and twelve—I had leukaemia. I was in hospital a lot.’

He looked at me, waiting for a reaction, or maybe for me just to acknowledge that I’d heard him. We sat like that—me looking away, him watching me—for five minutes. Eventually, when he figured I wasn’t going to do anything, he went on.

‘I was in remission. For years,’ he almost laughed.

‘I thought everything was back to normal. Then, the Wednesday before last, Dad took me in for a routine check-up.

‘It was on the morning of that Saturday—when I was in the lake, and you saved me—that’s when we got the news.’ He stopped and didn’t speak for so long I thought he wouldn’t start again. But then he did, his voice quieter than before. ‘Straightaway they called us—me and Dad.’

‘How long do you have?’ I whispered. ‘You’re not really dying, are you? You’re just sick. You’ll get better.’

My hand was shaking. Sacha still held it, tighter now.

I looked at him. His eyes were shiny with tears.

‘It’s a terminal disease, Jewel.’ He said it so softly I had to strain to hear him. ‘My body’s failing.’ Tears were brimming, and he laughed, but it sounded all wrong. ‘I’m going to try to fight it, Jewel, I will. I promise. I
want
to live. But we have to face the fact that the odds are against me.’

‘God, don’t cry,’ I said. I snatched my hand out of his and shifted away.

‘I’m so sorry, Jewel,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t talk about it before. I wish I had told you earlier. I wish it wasn’t happening at all.’

‘Why?’ I asked, my voice coming out all funny. I held my head in my hands.

‘Why what, Jewel?’

‘Please stop saying my name so much.’

He reached over and tried to grasp my hand again. I shifted further away.

He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Jewel. It’s out of my control.’

‘What happens next?’ I asked, talking into my hands.

He swallowed. ‘I’m going into hospital after my birthday. I’ll be starting chemo.’

‘So you’ll live through it?’ I said. I looked over at him now. ‘You’ll fight it and get better.’

‘We caught it too late,’ Sacha murmured. ‘It’s already spread. They think I have until the end of the year. Longer if the treatment works. I’m going to do whatever I can…’ He muffled a sob by biting on his hand. He was shaking now. Not looking directly at me. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Stop saying that! It means nothing!’ I snapped. I rubbed my eyes, tried to force the tears away. I wanted to move closer to him again, hold his hand. But I couldn’t. I felt angry, betrayed. I shook.

‘Well…I didn’t…you weren’t…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I couldn’t. I’m sorry it’s happening at all.’

‘You don’t have to worry,’ I said. I choked the words out; they hurt my throat. ‘You’re going to be dead.’

‘Oh Jewel,’ said Sacha, his voice shaky. ‘Stop being such a child.’ He swallowed nervously.

‘Maybe I am a child, okay?’ I said, in a low, harsh tone.

‘Let’s just forget about this, for now.’ His voice was calmer. ‘It’s my birthday next week. Let’s not think about the future. Let’s be happy. Let’s just have hope.’

‘See, that’s the thing,’ I said, pushing my hair out of my face and looking at him. ‘You’re going to die. There’s no future for you to think about. I actually do
have
a future.’

‘Not much of a future,’ said Sacha. ‘What are you going to do? Draw?’

I glared at him, and his expression instantly changed. ‘Oh, God, Jewel, you know I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry’—his voice cracked— ‘I’m just upset.’

I stood, and started to walk off. Sacha jumped up too. ‘Please just stop for a sec,’ he said. It hurt me to hear the pain in his voice. I stopped and turned.

He pushed hair out of his face. His T-shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess. With the knowledge I had now—that he was sick—I looked at him and noticed the things I should have noticed before. How thin and tired he looked.

‘What?’ There was hostility in my voice. It was unintended, but it was still there. He cringed at my tone.

‘I don’t know how to fix this,’ he said. ‘I want to, but I really don’t know how.’

‘I’m not sure it can be fixed, Sacha,’ I managed to say. ‘I…I don’t think…I don’t think I can handle it. I can’t. It’s too much for me. It’s all way, way too much.’

He tried to step closer, and I stepped back. Then he stopped. And he nodded. And a tear slipped down his face and he turned his head and rubbed his eyes.

‘I’m leaving. Don’t follow me. Go home, Sacha.’ The words felt strangled as I uttered them.

I walked the rest of the way across the oval, through the park past more people who were up way too early, then down the street to my house. Sacha had not followed me.

I went into the bathroom, crying, and dabbed wet cotton wool balls around my eyes and splashed my face with water. In my bedroom, I put on pyjamas. Then I walked into the living room and peeked out the Venetian blinds. Sacha was sitting facing away from me on the curb at the end of the drive.

I shut the blinds and went back into my room and burrowed into bed, and wondered if you could disappear if you wanted it badly enough.

S
ACHA

It was Monday and I had to go to school.

Well, I didn’t exactly
have to
, but the alternatives were much worse.

When I stumbled home, there was no Dad, for once. I stuck my head under the shower for five seconds then tugged my unwashed uniform on.

I took a handful of coins from the change jar and weighed down my bag with five cent pieces to count out in the lunch line at school. I wasn’t that interested in pissing off everyone in the canteen, but, without getting money out of my bank account, I had nothing. And our cupboards stocked only strange grains, dried fruit and nuts.

I locked the front door behind me and caught the bus with seconds to spare.

I sat three rows from the front with my head against the window, and wished I’d stayed home. But that would only have given me more time to think about things, think about how badly I’d fucked up.

When I got to school, instead of heading for my first class of the day (Psychology Unit 3 with Mr Preston in Room 4B), I wandered around the basketball courts and into C-block, the Science labs.

Little Al was exactly where he always was. Where would he go and what would happen to his routine when he finished school? He was in one of the labs, talking to Mrs Ford and scribbling notes that would give me a headache if I had to look at them.

I rapped my knuckles against the open door and leant against the frame, managing a polite smile.

‘All right if I have a word with Al, Mrs Ford?’

Al turned towards me, and ten different emotions flickered through his eyes before he smiled.

‘Certainly, Sacha,’ said Mrs Ford. ‘You’ve got another ten minutes before school starts.’

Al grabbed his notes and his schoolbag and followed me outside. I walked down the hall and out into the chilly morning. I wished I had remembered some gloves.

I sat on the steps and Al hopped down and cleared them all, then sat two steps lower so we were closer to eye level.

‘You look a mess.’ he said.

‘I feel a mess,’ I gritted my teeth and stared towards the sky. I wasn’t going to cry. Not at school. Not in front of Al.

‘I need to tell you something,’ I said, my eyes on the pavement.

‘What?’ There was concern in his voice.

‘Should we walk?’ I asked.

Al nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, sure.’

We got up and walked out of the school, down the road past the shops, and towards the park. I didn’t speak and Al didn’t speak. He just followed me, slowing his pace so he didn’t stride ahead.

In the park, there’s this bit, near the lake, that’s shrouded and always quiet.

We sat on the boulders that jutted out of the grass, and looked across the park. From here, we couldn’t see everything, but I knew where the playground was, where the pedal boat hire was, where the lake was.

After minutes and minutes of silence, Al finally said, ‘I guess we’re wagging school then.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered. I felt far away, but I forced myself to pay attention.

Al inhaled sharply. ‘Okay, enough emotional bottling. What is it?’

Two more minutes of silence.

‘Duck?’ Al’s voice was urgent now. Where we sat, a slice of bright morning sunlight slipped through the trees. In this light, he looked a bit like Silas from
The Da Vinci Code
, not a good look but he wore it well.

‘Okay, okay…’ I swallowed, and spoke slowly. ‘You remember how I told you I had leukaemia back when I was younger?’

Al nodded. ‘Yeah. But you got over that. What’s wrong now?’

I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel his eyes on my face.

‘I’m not in remission any more, Al.’

‘What are you saying? Why are you so upset? What’s going on? ’ Al asked, forehead crinkled.

‘The leukaemia is back. I’ve been given a terminal diagnosis. They think I have until the end of the year.’ My voice wavered as I spoke, no matter how level and composed I tried to keep it. I looked at him now.

Al stared at me. He blinked, and he blinked again.

‘What?’ He looked back at me, disbelieving. ‘What?’

‘I’m going into hospital next week,’ I said. ‘My body is shutting down.’ ‘Shutting’ down sounded awfully inadequate for the circumstances. Like turning off a computer: simple, easy, one click.

I paused, and Al breathed unevenly. Oh God. There I was, announcing my own demise again. It didn’t get any easier.

‘Some people,’ I began, ‘well, I guess some people aren’t meant to live. I wanted it to end the other night. And then, yeah, well, I’m still here. Like I said, they gave me the rest of the year. Treatment might extend that. I’m not well, Al. I never have been.’

Al looked as if he was fighting back tears.

I stood up and tried to touch his shoulder. He jerked away, so I stepped back and sat down where I had been. Tried to stop myself from shaking or crying. I’d already done that earlier.